


Best Laid Plains

by kcstories



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence, Hogwarts Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-23
Updated: 2007-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcstories/pseuds/kcstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't know about the events at the bookstore that afternoon. You didn't see the boy take the diary from the girl, as if he were some common Muggle pickpocket, mere minutes after his own father had slipped it in with her school supplies."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything you recognise from the books (or films). It all belongs to JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Inc., Warner Bros., and any other entities involved.  
> Warnings: second person narrative, run-on sentences, fluff if you squint (ack).

The first clue that part of you is once again alive is the image of a small blond boy. He's curled up in his bed, sound asleep in one of the Slytherin dorms.

It's a place you remember well, and if you were more than an odd kind of ghost, a literal shadow of your former self, if you actually had a face, the sight would have you frowning in confusion. Didn't you specifically ask for the diary to be given to the Weasley girl only?

You wonder what made them disobey such a simple command, how they even mustered up the nerve to go against your wishes. Are some of them already getting too big for their boots or did something else happen?

You don't know about the events at the bookstore that afternoon. You didn't see the boy (the very same you're currently observing) take the diary from the girl, as if he were some common Muggle pickpocket, mere minutes after his own father had slipped it in with her school supplies.

The boy intended to taunt her, because that was what he usually did.

She comes from a family of Muggle lovers and she's friends with Harry Potter. Two reasons that make her a sharp, persistent thorn in his side, so he stole your diary from her before she even had the opportunity to open it, before you ever got the chance to talk to the girl.

And he didn't give it back, because he liked the look of it and the idea of keeping a journal had always held some kind of appeal.

Of course, you don't know any of that, but still, at the end of the day, you assume the gender of the recipient doesn't matter all that much.

After all, _all_ children are easily manipulated.

So never mind about the Weasley girl, you think determinedly, a boy will fit just as easily into your schemes. Won't he?

Yes.

And he does.

Or he would.

Except…

Not before long, things take an unexpected turn.

You correspond with him through your diary, like you were planning to do with the youngest Weasley.

You learn more about him every day, and in no time at all, you find yourself intrigued. He's very polite, remarkably eloquent and surprisingly intelligent for a twelve-year old. He's a Slytherin, just like you were, and his father isn't particularly kind to him.

You think some of that seems entirely too familiar, and you feel something akin to empathy, or at least that's what you assume it is.

Either way, you couldn't possibly throw this boy to the lions, or as the case may be, let that basilisk down there have him.

He reminds you too much of yourself, or a long-buried part of yourself from a time when you were still vulnerable, insecure and completely at their mercy.

It doesn't take a genius to see this boy has potential. He's ambitious too, beyond his tender years. And he looks up to you and he clearly loathes Harry Potter.

Suddenly, your plan has changed. This is an opportunity too good to pass up.

"Who are you, really?" he asks you one night.

You tell him you're Tom Marvolo Riddle, though you intend to change that some day in the not too distant future.

He asks you if you're around here somewhere, if you're alive.

"In a fashion," you reply. "Your father has met me, another version of me, a very long time ago."

"Father?"

You can almost sense his fear, such is the extent of its tangibility.

"Don't be afraid," you write. "I have no intention of harming you, Draco. As for who I am…" You pause. You consider your words carefully. Then you write in a steady hand, "Lord Voldemort is my past, present and future."

A surge of adrenaline courses through his veins. You can feel it, and you think it's rather peculiar how strongly the two of you are already connected, how quickly your destinies intertwined.

You resolve to be his mentor, the older brother he never had, and you'll treat him much better than his father ever did.

"I'm sorry, Sir," he writes quickly, clumsily, some of the words ending up smudged. "I didn't realise. I'm a great admirer of yours."

You smile inwardly at that. "Don't apologise, Draco," you reassure him. "And I thought we were friends. Peers, practically. No need to call me Sir, surely?"

"What would you prefer me to call you, then?"

"Tom has worked perfectly fine so far. I see no reason to change that now. Do you?"

"No," he tells you, and you can feel him relax.

And you can't read his mind, not yet.

But if you could, you'd know that right now, he's revelling in the fact that Harry Potter may have turned him down, but another, much more powerful wizard has befriended him; and him alone.

 

*

 

In his third year, his self-esteem grows, along with his ambition and his magical powers, and you're very proud of him.

You, meanwhile, seem to have become his best friend, his sole confidant.

He tells you about the sheer and utter humiliation he felt when the Hippogriff attacked him.

He confesses he actually hates Quidditch, he only started playing the blasted sport to try to beat Potter at something, _anything_. Although he never could, he never can, and every single attempt backfires, usually in the most embarrassing of ways.

He tells you that courtesy of Quidditch, he gets injured often, and he really hates flying in the rain. It's such hell on his hair as well, ruins it completely, you see.

And you'd grin if you could, because he's rather cute when he's pouting, and he's growing up to be pretty handsome, too, and then you wonder whether you should be having these kinds of thoughts about someone of the same gender.

Perhaps you've simply been alone for too long, even though solitude was never a problem for you before.

"Then what do you enjoy, Draco?" you enquire.

"Potions. Reading."

"What do you like to read?"

You learn he devours books of all kinds and you're impressed. An unquenchable thirst for knowledge is something you can only admire. You tell him about a certain work from the Restricted Section he might be interested in 'borrowing'.

He tells you later that his two friends got it for him, though they're actually more his servants as far as you can see, and while they're clearly not the brightest lights in the harbour, they do appear to be fiercely loyal to him.

Once again, it's obvious to you, as it has been from the start, that young Malfoy has leadership qualities.

That's definitely something you can work with.

 

*

 

His fourth year rolls around and when it does, it's full of anger and hate, most of which boils down to the actions and reactions of one person and one person only.

Harry. _Sodding._ Potter.

Draco does seem to have some strong feelings about the boy. Sometimes you wonder if it's really all hatred, not some inexplicable attraction, a strong pull between two opposites, and frankly, that line of thinking doesn't make you very happy.

Evening after evening, you let him rant and rave, pouring venom into pages that never get full. There are times where he pushes his quill down so hard it almost breaks.

You feel his sadness, his sense of defeat, and his disappointment, along with his fear of what will happen to him when his father eventually finds out.

Sooner or later, the man always does and the consequences are usually grave and they make you want to materialise and hex someone.

And you would if you could.

For now, you have to bide your time, contain your impatience and comfort the boy with thoughtfully written words. He soaks them all up and takes them all in, and while you're glad you can help, a part of you also wonders why you make the effort.

You never cared about anyone else's feelings before.

Mildly disturbed by what your realisation might imply, you quickly change the subject. "Do you have a date for the Yule Ball yet, Draco?"

"Yes. I'm taking Pansy Parkinson."

He's never mentioned the girl to you before. You strongly dislike her already.

"She's a Pureblood and appears enamoured with me. And she's a match Father would certainly approve of."

"I see." His apparent need to explain his choice to you pleases you greatly, and you can't help but ask, "Do you return those romantic feelings, Draco?"

"No," he says, and adds, writing slowly, almost as though he's afraid to reveal what he's about to, "But I can't exactly ask the person I'd like to ask."

"And who might that be?"

The page stays blank for the full duration of sixty-seven seconds. You almost expect him to say Harry Potter, because to your chagrin, that name keeps cropping up at the oddest of moments.

Then one single world appears, "You."


	2. Chapter 2

Fifth year is almost over, and your hatred for Harry Potter greatly surpasses Draco's by now.

You derive a fair amount of satisfaction from colourful tales about Umbridge and her unorthodox ways of dealing with disobedient students in general and the Gryffindor Golden Boy and his little troop in particular.

Just this once, the person in charge of Hogwarts isn't on Potter's side. It's a most welcome change and you find yourself thinking she'd be a wonderful asset to your following.

Headstrong women with resourceful minds, strong stomachs and not a conscience between them flourish in your ranks.

Take Bellatrix Lestrange, for instance. She dealt with Potter's godfather in a quite permanent manner and will no doubt be rewarded accordingly.

It's not all good news, however. It never is.

Lucius Malfoy ends up in Azkaban.

When Draco hears, the boy goes to pieces, breaks down right in front of you.

Lucius may not be the nicest of people, not even towards his own son, but Draco's mother is severely distressed, too, and Draco's home life is in tatters.

Not to mention those Aurors who seem to be watching his family's every move.

Draco solemnly vows Potter will pay for this, one way or another, and so do you.

_So do you._

Meanwhile, you can tell the times are changing. Your power is growing stronger. Your followers are uniting, gaining in numbers.

It's only a matter of time now.

You'll have a body again soon.

 

*

 

You're powerless against the horrors Draco endures that August, and you have no way to lighten the load of the arduous months that follow.

You don't think you could hate Potter more if you tried, not after he cast that Dark Curse you'll never forgive him for.

Though you have to wonder why Draco was confiding in Myrtle when it happened. Myrtle, who's a Mudblood and a ghost to boot. Why didn't he come to you instead? You're supposed to be his best friend, aren't you?

A week later, you confront him.

His writing is unsteady as he replies, "I just wanted… someone who was in the same room with me, right next to me to comfort me, someone who was actually there. Not that you're not here, Tom, but..."

He doesn't add anything else. He doesn't need to. You understand.

_Merlin,_ how you understand.

This is no longer enough. For either of you.

"Would you like me to be there, Draco?" you ask him. "Actually with you, in person?"

"Yes." Tears tumble down and make the ink run. "More than anything in this world."

_Yes._

It's the pull and the push you've been waiting for.

Your head is spinning, your chest is heavy and there's a sensation of _being_. You let out your first breath in far too many years.

The first sight you see as you look through your actual eyes again is him, hunched over your diary, sobbing.

You wonder why he didn't ask for you earlier.

Maybe you could have helped prevent all this. Or at the very least, made it a little easier to bear.

It's against your personal philosophy to care about people, but for him, you'll make an exception. He's been an exception ever since that day many years ago when you first considered him yours.

"Draco?" Your voice is steady, calm and confident, and it's like music to your ears to finally hear it again after all that time.

He whips around, looking startled, like he doesn't even know who you are at first.

You hope he won't force you to Stupefy him, or worse.

He's the only true friend you've ever had.

Friendship wasn't a part of your plans, originally, but you can't say you mind the way it ended up a significant part of the equation.

"T-T-Tom?" he stammers.

You give him a reassuring smile. "Who else would it be, Draco?"

He stares at you. "You're really... _real_."

"Yes."

"Will you be leaving again?" His voice is small and shaky.

"No. You willed me here and that can't be undone. You're a lot more powerful than you realise, my dear Draco."

"I don't feel powerful," he laments and you're quite confident that he'd never show this kind of weakness to anyone else.

You slowly walk towards him. You take his hands. You pull him up and into your arms.

He's nervous, scared even. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest. "This is… strange," he says.

"Hm," you murmur in response, and the proximity of his body to yours makes you acutely aware of something else you've missed during your absence, though you have to say, you never considered doing it with a boy before, not before you became better acquainted with Draco Malfoy.

"Don't be afraid," you say soothingly. "It's only me."

"I'm not afraid, Tom," he whispers, and you almost believe him, because he's holding on to you as if for dear life, like you're the only one who can stop him from drowning, from falling apart, like you're the only saviour he'll ever have.

Then you think you probably are.

_Yes. You are._

"Look at me, Draco," you say.

He pulls away slightly and does as he's told. His eyes are wide and beyond the surface that's flooded with sadness and desolation, you detect a glimmer of hope.

You smile at him. "It's nice to finally see you, Draco. I've waited a long time for this."

"So have I," he whispers. "Honestly. You have no idea."

He looks at you like he's waiting for something, expecting it.

And then you kiss him.

You don't intend to go any further than that, not right away, because you know he never has, not with anyone or he would have told you about it over the years.

But his eagerness, his hunger for you takes you by surprise.

Kissing fast turns to touching, feeling, exploring and in no time at all, you're both naked on the large bed of his Prefect room, and he's clinging to you fiercely and you're moving inside of him and he's yours…

_All yours. At last. _

"You're not leaving again, are you, Tom?" he asks you again, afterwards, in a whisper, sounding very young and surprisingly vulnerable.

You promise him you won't, and you mean every word, because you don't think you could, not even if you wanted you.

Not that you'd ever want to. Something about this boy has you enchanted.

 

*

 

You're there that night, when at the top of a high tower, an old wizard draws his final breath.

From the shadows, you can see it all, and you sense another presence, a fourth person, too.

You can't make out who it is, but you have your suspicions.

Something tells you this is only make-believe, some kind of set up, even if you can't figure out for whose benefit or downfall.

When the thin, large-nosed man, who has to be Snape, tries to take Draco away, you leap into action.

At first, he doesn't know what hits him, and when he does, he can't believe his own eyes as he lies there on the floor, magically restrained, looking up at someone he never expected to have those features again, to look so young, powerful and untouchable.

It's very tempting to take care of the man personally, there and then, but instead, you leave him for the Aurors to find and the Dementors to deal with. And the only thing you can think is that even if his soul does get sucked out, it's still far less punishment than he deserves.

You know Harry Potter's still after Draco, so you take the boy by the hand and together, you run.

You keep running until you've passed the gates, have left Hogwarts Grounds.

"Where will we go?" he asks you, out of breath and clearly more scared than he'd admit, even to you.

"Anywhere," you tell him. "You didn't forget to bring the diary, did you?"

"No. Of course not."

"Good."

You kiss him and you assure him that everything will be just fine.

Then you Disapparate together.

To a faraway place where people only associate wizards with story books.

 

*

 

Ten years come and go.

You glance over at the man at the other end of the room. He's sitting on the sofa, reading some novel. An English Muggle classic, you suppose, but really, it doesn't matter.

Four years ago, Draco got his chemistry degree. He works at a research faculty now, and he loves his job.

As for you, you're a writer, a renowned expert on ancient artefacts. And a known recluse as well, because someone with your kind of past and your amount of long-forgotten and mostly forbidden knowledge doesn't need his picture in the papers.

He senses your eyes on him. He looks up at you and smiles.

You smile back warmly.

You don't know what happened to Potter or the others. You haven't a clue who won. Perhaps some day, you'll return to Britain.

Then again, chances are you won't, not after all this time.

The wizarding world isn't home any more. It has very little left to offer you.

Everything you crave is right here.


End file.
